


Between the Pages

by mirvly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Internal Conflict, M/M, Slow Burn, a lot of Crowley pining and being dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirvly/pseuds/mirvly
Summary: “I want to write a novel about silence. The things people don’t say.” - Virginia WoolfA lot of things were unsaid, leading up to the failed apocalypse. Here they are.(Or, what went on in Crowley’s head during and in between all of their scenes together.)





	1. In The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Good Omens fic. I’ve recently become absolutely enamoured with the show and book, and have been reading fic vehemently, and I thought I’d finally step into the fray, myself. I have a feeling about a million people have already done this concept, but I wanted to do my take on it. 
> 
> This includes bits and pieces from both the show and the book, because there were some scenes in the novel that I really wish had made it into the show. This fic is really just… well, the show, but more internal monologue. You’ll see what I mean.
> 
> I do hope I haven’t forgotten any scenes. Also, it’s all from Crowley’s perspective. Enjoy :)

**4004 B.C., Garden of Eden**

Standing atop the wall of Eden, a connection between an angel and a demon, six thousand years long, began. It bloomed like a flower on the apple tree from which Eve had taken a bite.

Fortunately, the angel and demon faired better than Eve did.

The demon thought the angel was interesting. For an angel, at least. Angels had a tendency to be rather dull, in his opinion. It became apparent rather quickly that Aziraphale was not like other angels. Not only had he given away his flaming sword, but he had then _worried_ about it, seeking comfort from the opinion of a demon like Crawly.

And when it began to rain, he offered his wing for shelter. Crawly wasn’t sure what possessed him to accept the gesture, but he did, edging under the feathered roof as the storm brewed around them. Perhaps it was due to the unique fact that he was witnessing the beginning of humankind—a fact that did not slip past him unnoticed. It was a special kind of thing, to be on Earth and see something so monumental. 

Watching Eve walk along with Adam by her side, Crawly assumed it was only fair that he had a companion to witness the birth of humanity with, too.

He glanced sidelong at the angel. Aziraphale’s bottom lip was drawn between his teeth, worrying it absentmindedly as he looked out over the wall. Crawly glanced away, remembering bitterly that he was here to stir up trouble, not chat with an enemy.

It was too bad. He liked a good chat. The demons weren’t much for conversation.

With one last look at the worrying angel, he sank back to his serpentine figure, leaving his human-like form behind, and wound his way down the wall, wondering what She had in store for an angel that might have done the wrong thing, and a demon that might have done the right one.

* * *

**3004 B.C., Mesopotamia**

Crawly would recognize the angel anywhere. He didn’t look much different than he had at the wall of Eden, and it wasn’t like he knew many angels personally, so it had to be the same one. Aziraphale, he remembered. 

There was something fascinating about this angel. The way he subtly expressed his disdain for the Almighty’s actions, yet reprimanded Crawly for doing the same aloud. He could see Aziraphale’s frown as he spoke of the coming flood. Even Crawly felt some dread over that. Seemed a bit dramatic, if you asked him, though of course, nobody ever did.

Strange that they should run into one another so soon, he thought. It was terribly lonely being the only demon around. He wondered, vaguely, if Aziraphale felt the same loneliness. It wasn’t as if there were plenty of angels running around, either. 

The rain began, and Crawly was reminded of that day on the wall, when Aziraphale offered him shelter. He considered returning the favour now, but figured it would be a little uncomfortable to explain the sudden sprouting of black wings from his back to a crowd of confused locals. That, and it wasn’t very common for a demon to go around doing generous things.

Crawly wasn’t _exactly_ sure if it was alright to be chatting with what the other demons would call _the enemy_. It seemed harmless, in his opinion. Just a business thing, really, to check up on the other side. 

He hoped it would happen again. 

* * *

**33 A.D., Golgotha**

Quite a bit of time went by before Crawly saw Aziraphale again. So long, in fact, that he decided to change his name. _Crawly_ wasn’t really doing it for him. Besides, snakes didn’t even crawl. _Crowley_ rolled off his forked tongue much easier. He wondered if Aziraphale would like it.

He had plenty of time to think about the angel for the past couple thousand years. In his time on Earth, Crowley didn’t run into any other angels, thankfully. Still, from what he remembered of Heaven—which, truthfully, wasn’t much—Aziraphale was quite different than the others. There was the whole flaming sword thing, for one, as well as the fact that Aziraphale seemed to have some degree of free thought, which was refreshing. Even the demons down below were a bit lacking in that department, and it was quite exhausting being surrounded by beings that weren’t as creative as you.

Aziraphale had something of a nervous energy around him, as if afraid that the Almighty would strike him down at any moment. _That_ was intriguing to Crowley. The angel always seemed to be teetering on asking one too many questions (and Crowley knew a thing or two about being reprimanded for _that_ ). 

Yes, Aziraphale was a very interesting celestial being, indeed.

It figured that Crowley would run into him here. The whole nailing to a cross thing was a little much, in his opinion. He would rather like to know if Aziraphale thought the same.

He couldn’t keep his snake-like eyes off the spectacle as he and Aziraphale exchanged pleasantries. Crowley was fond of humans, in a way. They were fascinating, and in some cases quite diabolical, and that was rather admirable. The man had seemed like an alright chap. He winced a little, watching the nails pound in. 

Aziraphale looked just as uncomfortable. A silence fell over the area has the cross was hoisted upright, and Crowley glanced sidelong at the angel, who was worrying his lip between his teeth, shuffling back and forth as if struggling to contain his thoughts.

“Aziraphale,” he said.

“Mm?” The angel didn’t take his eyes off the spectacle, even as the sun set around them.

“Best not concern yourself with depressing things like this in the future,” Crowley said, unsure where his sudden urge to warn the angel came from. 

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale looked at him, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. 

“You can’t miracle everything away,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Humanity can be a little, well…” He squinted up against the last dregs of sunlight. “You’re here on Earth. Might as well enjoy it, and stay away from the less depressing bits.”

“ _You’re_ here.”

Crowley pointed to his face, smiling cheekily. “Demon.”

Aziraphale huffed, shaking his head slightly. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

“Yes, well, I _am_ rather tempting.” The eye roll he heard only made Crowley grin wide. “Think I’ll head out now, though. Things to do, people to tempt. Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

* * *

**41 A.D., Rome**

It was only a few years until they saw one another next. This time, it was the angel who spotted him first. Crowley wasn’t particularly fond of the Roman style, with the flowy robes and the short hair and whatnot. He hoped that humanity would come around to some more fashionable styles soon.

When he heard, literally, the voice of an angel, he turned, surprised. It was the first time Aziraphale had ever taken notice of him first, and he was caught off guard. And in a place like this—well, maybe the angel had taken his advice to have some fun after all. 

And then, strangely, he began to find Aziraphale… _endearing_ . He was a terrible conversationalist. _Still a demon, then?_ Honestly. 

“I thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

And then Crowley did something he certainly hadn’t been planning to do. It just sort of slipped out. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

“Oh. Well, let me _tempt_ you to—”

Crowley turned, overcome with an overwhelming amusement towards this angel who had the gall to make little jokes about temptation. That was _Crowley’s_ thing. But, more than that… it was an invitation. To go with him.

He couldn’t help but smile, taking a long drink. “Alright, then, angel. _Tempt_ me.”

It was the first time he’d called Aziraphale _angel_ , but it rolled off the tongue quite nicely. A bit teasing, too. If they were bound to keep running into each other, they might as well become acquainted.

“Really?” Aziraphale lit up. “Wonderful!”

They had the oysters. Crowley wasn’t much of a _food_ person, but he had to admit, it wasn’t bad. Most of all, he was fascinated by the joy Aziraphale took in eating. He had never seen a celestial being so taken by such a human thing. 

“Humans really are so inventive,” Aziraphale babbled on once they had finished. “I mean, everyone has to eat, so you would think it would be quite a boring thing, doing it multiple times a day. And yet, they get so creative with their flavours. It’s really quite exciting.”

“Yes, quite.”

“It will only get better from here, I’m sure. How quickly humans have come along… I can’t imagine what they’ll come up with next.” He beamed at Crowley, then seemed to remember himself, and looked away. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I should be off. Still got that temptation to do.”

“Right.”

How was one meant to end a conversation with the enemy? _See you around_ didn’t seem to fit. _Till next time_ wasn’t good, either. 

Rather than think of a proper goodbye, Crowley just gave a short wave and sauntered off, wondering when he would see Aziraphale next.

* * *

**537 A.D., Kingdom of West Essex**

The surprise meeting with Aziraphale in West Essex gave Crowley a lot to think about. It was funny, in retrospect, how they had been unknowingly working against one another. It was the sort of thing that amused a demon like Crowley, while frustrating Aziraphale. 

They crossed paths often enough that perhaps this wasn’t the first time they had cancelled one another out in their miracles and temptations. 

It gave him an idea.

It took many years of finessing the concept, and then figuring out how best to pitch it to Aziraphale. He’d grown somewhat fond of his run-ins with the angel. The more time they spent crossing paths, the more Crowley learned about him—his love for humanity, his subtle skepticism of some of the goings-on in Heaven. His clear love of God, yet his nervous questioning of if She was always doing the right thing. 

It was _ineffable_ , he always said, to justify his discomfort. Noah’s ark, Jesus on the cross, and a dozen other questionable actions… Aziraphale always muttered something about how God’s plans were ineffable. Crowley thought that was a bit rubbish, but he felt he and Aziraphale might not be friends anymore if he said as much.

They were friends, really, in some strange way. Somewhere along the way, Crowley stopped seeing Aziraphale as an enemy and started seeing him as an ally. Especially once he came up with the Arrangement.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said, several decades after the run-in in West Essex, when Crowley finally pitched it to him. “It’s—it’s just _wrong_ , Crowley.”

“Is it, though?” Crowley asked, cocking his head. “We both have to go anyway. Might as well just have one of us go instead.”

“I will not commit acts of _evil_ for you,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Is it evil if it’s just being cancelled out by your miracle? I think it’s rather neutral. Besides, it’s not like Hell cares who does the job, as long as it gets done.”

“I said it years ago, and I’ll say it again, Crowley, I will not lie to Heaven. You may very well be content with having Fallen, but I’m quite happy with my job.”

Crowley pursed his lips, yellow eyes blinking a few times to steady the flare of anger he felt towards the angel. He wasn’t about to get into the whole _I didn’t Fall, I just hung around the wrong people_ spiel now. Maybe one day, but he would rather keep that part of his history to himself. 

“You won’t Fall,” he said. “In fact, I bet you’d do a much cleaner job of it than I would. Taking over my temptations, you could make them a bit more mild than I would.”

That seemed to catch Aziraphale’s attention. “You… are a slippery demon, Crowley. I can’t believe you’re talking me into this.”

“What are friends for?”

“We are not _friends_!” the angel huffed, and Crowley grinned.

“Alright, angel, whatever you say. So how about it? You take both jobs this time, I’ll do the next one.”

Aziraphale took a very, very long moment to think the whole thing over. It looked like it pained him very much. Finally, he stuck out his hand. “Alright.”

Crowley shook it. “Alright.”

* * *

**1601, London**

The Globe Theatre was nearly empty, so it wasn’t difficult to spot Aziraphale, watching with rapt attention as the mediocre actor droned on and on with some boring speech. Crowley strolled over to the angel. 

He looked absolutely ridiculous in his neck ruffles and stockings. He was seemingly very keen to adapt to the current fashions. Crowley wasn’t quite as eager, but as long as it was in black, he was fine with wearing it. 

“I thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here. Blend in among the crowds.” Crowley was so busy looking around the near-empty stadium that he didn’t see Aziraphale’s small, pleased smile at his appearance. They had become quite fond of one another over the thousand years or so since they started the Arrangement, even if Aziraphale refused to admit it.

Crowley listened as Aziraphale bantered with Shakespeare and his actor, taking in the scene with amusement. The angel had only become more enamoured with humanity over the years. Crowley had too, but he was a little less obvious about it. Aziraphale was practically drooling over participating in the play.

“And what does your friend think?”

A slow smile spread across Crowley’s face, until it became rather wide and toothy.

“Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other,” Aziraphale said quickly.

“I think you should get on with the play,” Crowley said, uncommonly pleased to see Aziraphale so flustered. They _were_ friends, as much as the angel hated to admit it, but Crowley knew they were. One didn’t make Arrangements with the enemy for a thousand years and then _not_ become friends. 

“What do you want?” Aziraphale muttered as the play continued. Crowley practically danced around him, shuffling back and forth, circling like a shark. They both knew why he was here. Aziraphale really did like pretending he didn’t, though. So Crowley played along.

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?”

“You are up to no good.”

“Obviously. You’re up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds?” He really did like teasing Aziraphale, if only to see how long it would take to rile him up.

“No rest for the… well, good.”

The dance continued. Edinburgh—cattle, clan leaders—blessings— _You cannot actually be suggesting_ …

While Aziraphale focused on looking at anything except Crowley, Crowley was doing the opposite, his eyes trained on the angel’s face, relishing in how easily he cracked under Crowley’s influence. It wasn’t _really_ a demonic temptation. He barely had to say anything. Aziraphale was practically tempting _himself_ into it. It was simply too easy.

Although, he was taking a bit longer this time than usual. “We’ve done it before. Dozens of times now.” That was why Crowley knew that the bickering was just a formality. Aziraphale always came around. He was the only constant, the only reliable thing, in Crowley’s life. His long, lonely life, where an angel was his only friend.

He wondered if that was a part of God’s plans, too.

“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry. They’ll destroy you.”

Crowley’s breath stuttered for a moment. _Oh_ . Was that… _concern_ ? Aziraphale, who had literally just insisted they weren’t friends, was now reluctant to continue the Arrangement because he was _concerned for Crowley’s life?_

He recovered very quickly, not even skipping a beat. “Nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh.” 

Crowley watched him carefully, feeling a little lightheaded. _They’ll destroy you_. He pushed the thoughts aside. They were friends, and Aziraphale was an angel—of course he was concerned for him. That was what angels were for. It would be the same for any other being. 

“Fine. Heads.”

Honestly, Crowley was relieved when he won the coin toss. Aziraphale would go to Edinburgh, and Crowley could find a tavern and drink very extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

“Complete dud!” said Shakespeare. “It would take a miracle to get anyone to come and see _Hamlet_.”

The look that Aziraphale gave Crowley might have made any angel Fall. Fortunately for Crowley, he’d already Fallen. But something stirred deep inside him at the angel’s pleading look, and it barely took a moment for him to concede. 

“Yes, alright, I’ll do that one, my treat.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled, and Crowley felt the sudden urge to run very, very far away.

“I still prefer the funny ones,” he said, and turned to leave. 

Once the miracle had been performed, he went and found that tavern, and drank nearly everything they had.

Then he slept off the hangover.

For about a century and a half.

* * *

**1793, Paris**

After he woke up, Crowley was stiff, tired, and… _hollow_. Sleeping for so long ended up being more unpleasant than he imagined; it was like emerging from a pool of water on the brink of drowning, disoriented and gasping for breath. 

Crowley was grasping for something else, too. Something shapeless that he couldn’t quite figure out. All he knew was that he woke to half a dozen letters from Aziraphale on his doorstep, asking about his whereabouts and if the Arrangement was still on.

When he found the angel, it was very hard to act nonchalant. Especially dressed so ridiculously. He must have slept through all the good fashions of the 18th century.

Apparently Aziraphale didn’t fancy the look either, based on his expression when he saw Crowley sprawled in the chair in the corner. Although, if Crowley wasn’t mistaken, the expression had been prefaced by one of joy.

Only Aziraphale would be imprisoned and sentenced to death, just because he’d gotten peckish and wanted a crepe. And he seemed so downcast at how things had worked out, like he hadn’t expected it. 

The whole bit about being reprimanded for excessive miracles… Aziraphale was just too _good_ . For an angel, that was saying something. He was born of goodness, his entire being was created just to _be good_ , and yet he was somehow _better_ than all the other angels. 

Looking at him now, Crowley could have melted.

He tried not to sound too fond as he said, “Well, you’re lucky I was in the area.”

He hadn’t been in the area, of course. Unless the aforementioned area was up Aziraphale’s proverbial ass.

“I suppose I am. Why are you here?”

Crowley sighed internally. One of the letters on his doorstep was a memo from Hell. “My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance,” he said, feeling a little sheepish, though he didn’t let it show. While Aziraphale was being reprimanded for being too good, Crowley was being congratulated for being too evil. 

It only reminded him how vastly inferior he was to the goodness in Aziraphale’s heart.

“So all this is _your_ demonic work?” Aziraphale demanded, standing up.

“No! The humans thought it up themselves, nothing to do with me!” He wanted so badly for Aziraphale to believe that he wasn’t _all_ bad, that given the opportunity he would _love_ to be good, that during the dozen or so times when they had enacted their Arrangement he _relished_ performing those tiny miracles and blessings. But he could never say that.

He snapped his fingers, and the manacles fell noisily to the floor of the cell. Aziraphale rubbed his wrists appreciatively. “Well, I suppose I should say thank you for the, uh, rescue.”

Crowley stood up. “Don’t say that.” He felt a little panicked at the idea. “If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble, and my lot do not send rude notes.” 

It was a subtle reminder of what Aziraphale had said to him in 1601. _They’ll destroy you_. Maybe Aziraphale had stopped caring after he’d slept away the last century and a half. 

“Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?”

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked, which he didn’t have to do very often, but quite frankly, the question shocked him. “Looking like that?” he asked quietly. That same shapeless _something_ appeared inside him again, that thing he wanted to grasp for, but he shoved it aside.

Maybe he _had_ been a bad influence on Aziraphale, Crowley thought to himself as they made their way out of the cell. He’d swapped clothes with that French man, letting him be taken away to be beheaded. 

“That executioner…” he started, picking a corner off his crepe. Naturally, he wasn’t hungry, but Aziraphale would likely be pleased if he participated in lunch, so he tried it out.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said sadly. “I’m not really responsible for his death, am I? I mean, he had said that he killed _nine hundred and ninety eight_ others. I was to be the ninety-ninth. They must have had him beheaded, but… I did the right thing, didn’t I? He would have killed more.”

“Like I said on the wall of Eden, angel,” Crowley said, “I don’t think you _can_ do wrong.”

Aziraphale smiled appreciatively, and then returned to his crepe. Crowley lingered on the image for a moment—a tender smile, just for him. Then he quickly filed it away in the dark recesses of his mind.

* * *

**1862, St. James Park**

Things continued on in a similar fashion after Paris. The Arrangement continued, but this time, occasionally, the two would chat for a bit longer, and Crowley would realize he was very much in trouble. It wouldn’t sit well with Head Office at all, if they found out how frequently they met. 

St. James Park became a popular meeting spot for them. They blended in there, while other secret meetings happened around the pond. 

Today, Crowley had a very specific, non-Arrangement reason for meeting Aziraphale. And he was nervous, though he never showed it. The development of their _friendship_ had gotten him worried. Some day, as was bound to happen eventually, someone might find out. In that case, he wanted to be prepared.

Because as much as the world changed over the past few thousand years, Aziraphale had been the only constant in Crowley’s life. He wanted to keep it that way. He would do anything to protect the one thing on Earth that was his and his only.

“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?” Crowley sounded nonchalant, but this was the closest he’d gotten to _stressed the fuck out_ in several millenia. He couldn’t tell Aziraphale exactly what he meant by all of this, but he wanted the angel to _know_ , to _understand_ why he was asking for this. How important it was to protect them. “We have a lot in common, you and me.”

“I don’t know. We may have both started off as angels, but you are Fallen.”

Again with the whole _Fallen_ business. Crowley suppressed his annoyance. “I didn’t really Fall. I just, you know, sauntered vaguely downwards. I need a favour.”

What he _needed_ was for this conversation to be done with as soon as possible. Aziraphale barely blinked at his admission that he wasn’t all that evil, that when he Fell it wasn’t for anything particularly sinister, per se. Maybe the meaning didn’t come across. He wanted Aziraphale to think him a good person, or good by demon standards. 

Or at least, good _enough_. Enough to keep around.

“We already have the agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand when needed.”

“This is something else.” He tried to communicate the importance in his tone, but Aziraphale wouldn’t stop throwing those damn breadcrumbs. “For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears.”

“If it all goes wrong… I want insurance.”

Aziraphale put his hat back on. “What?” He didn’t look bothered. Crowley wanted to strangle him.

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears. Well, not walls, trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears? Must do, that’s how they hear other ducks.” His nerves were making him babble, like the way Aziraphale did. The stupid angel was getting under his skin, and he didn’t like it.

“Out of the question.”

Crowley glanced over. “Why not?”

“It would destroy you.” There it was again. _They’ll destroy you. It would destroy you_. Aziraphale cared, too. “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.” He shoved the slip of paper back.

“That’s not what I want it for. Just _insurance_ .” The paper went back to Aziraphale’s hand, as if handing it back would communicate everything Crowley couldn’t say. _I want it to protect us from them_. 

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley!” He was doing a right job of acting like one. “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if… if they knew I’d been—fraternizing? It’s completely out of the question!” 

_“Fraternizing_?” Crowley all but hissed, an uncomfortable feeling creeping up his throat. That was how Aziraphale thought of him, then. The word implied that they were enemies. Crowley had stopped thinking of Aziraphale as such centuries ago. 

Apparently it wasn’t the same for him.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

If Aziraphale was so determined to make Crowley feel unimportant, two could play at that game. “I have lots of other people to _fraternize_ with, angel.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t need you.” _Yes, I do_.

“Well, and the feeling is mutual. Obviously!”

Aziraphale hucked the slip of paper into the river, and it set alight, drifting quietly across the surface. He stormed away, leaving the demon alone by the pond. 

Crowley’s face pinched up sourly. “Obviously,” he muttered, feeling an odd sense of betrayal.

It was a simple favour, and Aziraphale had understood it all wrong. Did he really think so ill of Crowley that he wanted to destroy _himself_ , after all the work he’d done on Earth? All of the little joys of humanity, joys that they had experienced _together_?

He should have buttered Aziraphale up with crepes first. Next time—if there was a next time; Aziraphale might very well never speak to him again—he would do better. He knew Aziraphale, he _liked_ Aziraphale, pearly white wings and all. There was plenty of evidence of their Arrangement over the years, as careful as they were. Crowley knew it. He just wanted to _preserve_ it.

* * *

**1941, London**

Crowley couldn’t resist.

He _tried_ . But for someone whose job it was to tempt people, Aziraphale just had a way of tempting _him_ in a way Crowley would never understand. 

That was how he ended up burning his feet on consecrated ground just to save the angel and his pile of books. 

It hurt like Hell. No, _really_ , it hurt like literal Hell, and even though he hadn’t seen Aziraphale since their fight nearly a century ago, he was perfectly determined to save the damn angel from being inconveniently discorporated over a pile of books.

When he’d heard about the exchange, he knew there would be some double agent business going on. His job was mischief, so he could easily sniff it out. Aziraphale, too blinded by the goodness in his heart, thought he had the upper hand. Idiot.

The moment Crowley stepped into the church, he was on fire, and he couldn’t help making those ridiculous noises of pain as he marched between the pews towards Aziraphale. The angel watched him approach, and Crowley was too distracted by the pain to attempt to understand his expression.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

 _Great_ , Crowley thought. _You burn your feet on consecrated ground for him, and he isn’t even a tiny bit grateful._

“These people are working for you!”

Now _that_ hurt, almost as much as the bottoms of Crowley’s feet. Had Aziraphale learned nothing over the past millennia? Crowley had only ever been nice to him. And now they were having a row in front of a few Nazis, and he really wished they could take this outside.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, your fame precedes you.”

“ _Anthony_?”

“You don’t like it?” He wasn’t all that attached to it yet. He was willing to change it, if Aziraphale didn’t like it. 

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.”

The Nazi woman spoke, and Crowley tipped his hat at her, not in the least bit worried about her threat. He already felt as if he was dying, from the knees down at least. 

Apparently, Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. “What does the J stand for?” he asked.

“Uh, it’s just a J, really,” Crowley said. He liked the letter J. A bit underrated, J. Aziraphale was awfully distracted by the topic of a name. Crowley was more focused on the dish of holy water nearby. “Look at that!” he said, still dancing around on his pained feet. “A whole fontful of holy water. It doesn’t even have guards!” 

Might as well remind Aziraphale of the request he’d refused, while Crowley was there _saving his life_.

“Enough babbling, kill them both.”

Showtime. Crowley had it all worked out. It went rather swimmingly, the church collapsing around them with the bomb. Thankfully, Aziraphale got the message and gave them the miracle of survival. Crowley was preoccupied with his own little miracle—the bag of books. 

He could have saved them both, himself, but then he would’ve had to forsake the books. He wasn’t willing to do that when they seemed awfully important to Aziraphale. 

Relief rushed through him when the terrible pain melted away with the crumbling of the church. He was a little wobbly as the smoke cleared. It would take him a while to recover from that. 

He cleaned his sunglasses of dust, looking very pointedly _not_ at Aziraphale.

“That was very kind of you.”

He put the glasses back on. “Shut up.” 

“Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” Crowley saw Aziraphale’s smile. He filed the image away with the others. “Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books!”

As Crowley knew he would. 

“Oh, they’ll all be blown to…” He trailed away, watching as Crowley grunted and pulled the bag out from the Nazi’s dead hand, and handed it over. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said. “Lift home?”

Crowley was quite far away by the time Aziraphale caught up, stumbling a little over the rubble with the bag of books clutched tightly in his hands. “Thank you, Crowley,” he said breathlessly.

“Ah—what have I told you about thank-yous?” 

“Right. Er, well, I do appreciate it, anyway. I know I haven’t been in touch—”

“I take it you haven’t reconsidered my request.”

“Well, no.” Aziraphale sounded absolutely affronted. “I don’t want you having that, Crowley.”

“I don’t want it for myself,” Crowley said firmly. He stopped in the street, glancing around, gritting his teeth as he leaned against his Bentley. Aziraphale stopped in front of him, face full of concern and question. 

“Then what…?”

“For protection,” Crowley muttered. Then he cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve made your choice, angel. I won’t ask you again.” He opened the passenger side door and gestured for Aziraphale to get in.

After a moment, he did.

They didn’t say a word the whole ride.

* * *

**1967, Soho**

It was when Aziraphale handed over the thermos of holy water that Crowley knew.

He knew, without a doubt, that he was in love.

And he thought (which quite a large smidge of doubt) that Aziraphale might just love him, too.

“After everything you said,” Crowley murmured, cradling the thermos gingerly. How on Earth was it possible to be breathless when he didn’t even have physical lungs? “Should I say thank you?” he asked, suddenly understanding why Aziraphale felt the need to say it so often.

He’d done a lot for Aziraphale over the years, but this was the first time that Aziraphale had really done something for him. Something that showed he, in some capacity, really and truly cared.

“Better not,” Aziraphale said, not looking at him.

But Crowley needed to do _something_ , needed to say thank you in another way. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” Crowley pouted. He couldn’t help it. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.” Crowley was getting desperate. _Please_ , he pleaded silently. 

Their eyes met. He was sure for a moment that Aziraphale would say yes. Then—

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He got out of the car quickly. Crowley watched him go, speechless. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_.

Too fast?

Was six thousand years _too fast_?

Maybe he ought to stop trying, then. 

Crowley looked at the thermos. It had that silly tartan pattern that Aziraphale so enjoyed, ever since he’d seen it in Scotland all those years back. He’d come to associate the pattern exclusively with the angel, and now here it was, in his hands, holding the one thing that would utterly destroy not only his body, but his _everything_.

It was protection and destruction, all wrapped in a neat little tartan bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> At the end of each chapter I’m going to share a song from my personal “ineffable husbands” playlist. Today’s pick is: "Salvation" by Gabrielle Aplin. Listen if you want to cry.
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:  
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
> My twitter is [anthonyjcrowiey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowiey)  
>    
> **Next up: 11 Years Ago**


	2. 11 Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much shorter than the first. I mean, the first one spanned 6000 years and this one does only 11, so you do the math.  
> Be warned though, the next chapter is a CHONKER. It’s so long I might have to split it into two.

**2008**

With the deed done, and his back seat vacant once again, Crowley felt an overwhelming dread settle in his chest. He’d gone and done it. Finished. The little Antichrist was on Earth, and time was ticking away.

He needed to call Aziraphale.

The decision came from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. He couldn’t sit idly by and watch the apocalypse drift by. He’d spent all of six thousand years getting used to Earth. As much as Crowley didn’t want to admit it, he liked this strange little planet, with its ever-changing culture and styles. It was different. It was  _ refreshing _ . The other demons rotting away in Hell didn’t know a thing about  _ refreshing _ .

Aziraphale did. Funny how an angel understood him better than the other demons ever would. Well, it wasn’t funny, really. It was inevitable. Six thousand years in the making. 

Crowley had toyed with the idea of interfering with Armageddon, should it ever arise. He had ideas on what to do. He knew he couldn’t do it alone, however. 

“Call Aziraphale.”

Of course the lines were busy. He’d have to find a damn payphone.

He couldn’t describe the rush he felt when Aziraphale picked up, after only the second ring. They hadn’t spoken in some time. Crowley had kept a respectable distance since Aziraphale had gifted him the holy water. After all, he went  _ too fast _ for the angel.

A myriad of emotions rose up to hear Aziraphale again, but Crowley kept his voice level. Made his tone  _ grave _ , even. By now, it had really sunk in. The apocalypse was coming, and they only had eleven years to stop it.

And thank—not God, or Satan, but thank  _ whoever _ that Aziraphale somehow already knew. Angels worked fast, it seemed. Good. He didn’t have to explain. Wasn’t sure he’d have the words, anyway.

***

Their clandestine meeting in St. James’ Park went exactly to plan. Naturally, Aziraphale would never say yes to thwarting God’s ineffable plans right away. He was simply too good for that.

That’s why Crowley suggested lunch. He would chip away at the angel’s defences, all in good time. The century-long holy water argument had taught him a thing or two about wearing Aziraphale down.

The traffic warden’s notebook went up in sparks and smoke as the Bentley pulled away from the park. Crowley hummed in thought. “I’m pretty certain I didn’t mean to do that,” he said.

“That was me,” Aziraphale said, and when Crowley glanced over, he was blushing. “I had always thought that  _ your _ people invented them.”

“Did you?  _ We _ thought they were yours,” Crowley said, smirking a little at the astonished man’s face in the rearview mirror, circled by an ashy cloud of disintegrated parking tickets. Tiny sparks fluttered to the pavement around him. 

Thinking back to their conversation moments ago, Crowley mused for a moment about how, when asked which side was responsible for the Reign of Terror, Aziraphale didn’t know. However, he remembered quite happily that they had enjoyed crepes together that day in France. 

He looked back at the road. “Come on,” he said, smiling as he remembered a promise made several decades ago. “Let’s do the Ritz.”

Aziraphale shuffled in the passenger seat, and Crowley gathered that it was a shuffle of excitement. The angel always did enjoy fancy restaurants. Crowley couldn’t be bothered, really, but he did rather like the taste of coffee, and if he was being honest, which he usually wasn’t (except around Aziraphale; always honest around him), then he enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat. He enjoyed watching Aziraphale do pretty much anything.

Back to the task at hand, though. Right. Saving the world.

It was all going according to plan. Lulling Aziraphale into a sense of security with his meal. Going back to the bookshop for quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Six hours of alcohol, to be exact.

Crowley was a little bit shocked when it worked.

Yes, he had the plans of softening Aziraphale, making him see how by thwarting Crowley’s influence on the child, he wasn’t doing anything objectionable in the eyes of Heaven. He’d thought it all through. And then Aziraphale reached out his hand, and Crowley shook it, and it was done.

“Godfathers. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it.” Crowley grinned, his heart, his stomach, his mind all aflutter. Never mind that he really had none of those organs even in this humanesque form. This was  _ happening _ .

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was scowling. “What are you smiling about?”

“Didn’t think you’d say yes.” Crowley wanted to pour out a glass to celebrate, but he’d only just become sober. “Divine plans, and all that.”

“Yes, well, you did a good job of convincing me otherwise,” Aziraphale said, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. “We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

“You’re asking a demon?”

“I asked you on the wall of Eden, all those years ago,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “If I’d done the right thing with the flaming sword business. And then again, in France.”

“Ah yes, the executioner.” Crowley picked at his nails. He remembered those days as easily as if they were yesterday. Their first bout of witty banter; he recalled that memory fondly. Most notably, the way that Aziraphale had sheltered him from the rain, despite the fact that he was a demon, and they hardly knew one another.

Aziraphale was a strange angel, indeed. A strange angel he was very much in love with.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I suppose we should meet again soon. To discuss, er, the, well,  _ thwarting _ .”

Crowley stood, settled his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he announced, and sauntered out from the little office. Aziraphale shuffled after him.

The bell above the door jingled as Crowley strode out into the street, his Bentley waiting for him around the corner. 

“Oh, and Crowley?” 

He stopped and spun on his heel to see Aziraphale, arm holding the door open, silhouetted in the doorway at the top of the steps. With the glow of the light behind him, Crowley thought he really  _ did _ look like an angel. “Yes, angel?”

“Thank you. For, er,  _ tempting _ me.”

Crowley fought back his frown. He didn’t like that—the implication that he had used some demonic powers on Aziraphale. He would never. Never do anything to risk Aziraphale’s place in Heaven. Just because he’d Fallen, didn’t mean he had to drag his best friend down with him.

But the angel was smiling down at him softly, thankful for an excuse to save this strange little planet they had both fallen in love with. And so, Crowley plastered on his usual smile.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Under the safety of his glasses, he gave Aziraphale a hidden wink, and turned away. During the Arrangement, he certainly had skewed the angel’s moral compass. He’d had some quite ingenious ideas, really, and Aziraphale had gone along with them all. 

The last thing he wanted to do was get Aziraphale in trouble. But if the world ended, there was really no guarantee they would see each other again. War between Heaven and Hell, and all that. It was worth the risk to prevent that war, wasn’t it?

An angel and a demon, saving the world together.

Or at the very least, giving it their best shot.

* * *

**2013**

Crowley was beginning to worry.

It was a dangerous thing, a demon worrying. He had to keep his cool, or else he would do something irrational, and an irrational demon was not very good company to keep. 

“The boy’s too normal.”

Aziraphale was being decidedly daft about the whole thing, and it bugged Crowley to no end. Leaning over his shoulder on the bus, the angel’s warm scent wafting around him (Crowley had long memorized the smell of his usual cologne. He also tended to have a smell of old parchment about him that Crowley found rather attractive), he could barely keep focused. Aziraphale was usually so clever, and now here he was, blindly hoping for the best.

Crowley wanted to hope for the best, too. He really did. But he knew a thing or two about Armageddon, and something about Warlock felt very…  _ off _ . He should have shown some degree of power by now, shouldn’t he?

“I hope you’re right. Only six years left to go.” Crowley glanced around the bus. Nobody took notice of them, of course, even as they perused the events of the apocalypse aloud. He was glad Aziraphale couldn’t see the worry etched between his brows. It would really do no good to make the angel any more anxious.

Something must have tipped him off anyway, because when he spoke next, Crowley could hear the worry in his tone. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, if he comes into his full power, how do—how do we stop him, then?”

There was a brief pause as Crowley thought how best to answer. It was tempting to lie, to say there was some way to fix it, some back door or loophole in all of the carefully thought out plans of the Antichrist and his power. There wasn’t, of course. Crowley couldn’t lie to Aziraphale. But he couldn’t exactly find the words to tell the truth, either.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

A non-answer. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and looked as far away from Aziraphale as he could without straining his neck. Couldn’t bear to see how the angel would react. There was nothing left to say, really. Five years of interfering, another six to go, and it would either work or it wouldn’t. That’s all there was to it. 

They sat in silence. Crowley could practically hear Aziraphale’s brain turning over the possibilities of what would happen or what wouldn’t. He thought incredibly loudly.

A few stops later, Crowley stood and got off the bus, only throwing one parting glance at Aziraphale on his way out. Aziraphale stared back, a timid smile on his face, and nodded in goodbye. Crowley repressed a sigh and stepped out onto the street. 

He needed a drink.

***

Three years to go. Warlock was eight, and still, nothing had changed with the boy. 

If there was anything to be said for this part of the Arrangement, it was that Crowley got to see Aziraphale a lot more frequently. (He would never have admitted such a thing to Aziraphale. In self-defence, he acted as if this was quite the inconvenience, and thus, more and more sarcasm worked its way into his voice when they spoke to one another. It was his only defence mechanism. Aziraphale noticed this, but decided it was best not to comment on it.) There was less bread-crumb-throwing in the park, and more passing one another in the Dowlings’ kitchen, or meeting by a certain shrubbery in the garden. It was all strangely… domestic.

Crowley didn’t let himself think too hard on it.

Even though they had spent six thousand years together, Crowley was now becoming acutely aware of the time they spent in one another’s company. Much of those six thousand years were spent apart, doing work for their respective head offices. Now that he was faced with seeing Aziraphale nearly every day for eleven years, something was beginning to shift in Crowley. More specifically, in his heart, which he didn’t physically have, but if he did, it would be throbbing quite rapidly every time he saw the angel, and it would have given him some discomfort.

He knew, rationally, that love was a  _ thing _ , but it wasn’t a thing that usually happened to demons. Angels were the ones who were all about love, which was why it was so infuriating to see Aziraphale act as if everything was normal. 

He couldn’t have known that it was this very reason that Aziraphale hadn’t figured out the reality of their relationship. Being a creature born of love, Aziraphale was, quite frankly, swamped with the emotion. It made it a lot more difficult to distinguish what each of his little feelings were for. 

In the same way the Antichrist’s aura was unnoticeable because of its immense size, Aziraphale couldn’t sense Crowley’s love, nor could he distinguish his own love for the demon.

He noticed those flashes of love around Crowley, but there was always so much else going on, that it faded into the background, buried with the rest of their feelings.

In the 60s, in Crowley’s Bentley, he’d told him that he went too fast. Crowley was ever-changing, shifting with the newest styles and trends. Meanwhile, Aziraphale only wanted to slow down and smell the roses. 

The holy water request confused him, because he didn’t understand what it was for. Crowley had said  _ insurance _ .  _ Protection _ . Aziraphale simply didn’t realize what he wanted protection for. 

He was always a few steps ahead, while Aziraphale trailed behind.

Crowley was waiting for him to catch up. 

So while he waited, he pretended everything was fine, and shoved it aside. There was Armageddon to worry about, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> At the end of each chapter I’m going to share a song from my personal “ineffable husbands” playlist. Today’s pick is "Waiting For You" by The Aces.
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:  
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
> My twitter is [anthonyjcrowiey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowiey)
> 
> **Up Next: Present Day (The Apocalypse)**


	3. Present Day (The Apocalypse) - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was supposed to cover ALL of the apocalypse. But then I finished it and realized it was nearing 10k words, so I thought I would split it up into two. Enjoy!

**Monday**

Six days to go.

During their little chat, Crowley felt—well, exhausted. He spoke tiredly, weighted by the reality that this was it. They had done everything they could. An angel and a demon, the only two forces who gave enough of a damn to try to save the world. 

Suggesting killing the boy was a last resort. He certainly couldn’t do it himself. Aziraphale said no, predictably. 

“I don’t think I could.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, silently willing him to somehow change his mind. “Not even to save…  _ everything _ ?” he whispered. He leaned closer to Aziraphale, without realizing he was doing so.  _ Everything _ , he thought,  _ including us _ . 

Then he had to go and do that silly magic act, and Crowley might have found it endearing if he wasn’t so preoccupied with the destruction of the human race. Now, he just found it annoying. (As well, he’d become fairly practiced at hiding it when he found Aziraphale endearing. He was still waiting for the angel to catch up to him, emotionally speaking. The whole  _ You go too fast for me _ line had never left him.)

“You’re no fun.”

“ _ Fun _ ?” It was the end of the world, and Aziraphale wanted Crowley to be  _ fun _ ? “It’s humiliating. You can do proper magic. You can make things disappear.”

“But it’s not as  _ fun _ .”

He hated Aziraphale’s pleased-as-punch smile, like having a little bit of fun would solve all of their problems.

“Make you disappear,” he grumbled, and was satisfied with the frown it earned him. Warlock and his mother were long gone now, and it was just them on the bench, staring at a couple of dinosaur statues. “The children will hate it. Don’t come crying to me when they heckle you. I won’t even need to tempt them to do that.”

“You will be there, won’t you?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, turning to look at him. “At the party?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the worlds. Part of my job, really. Making sure the hellhound finds its master.”

Aziraphale let out a little sigh. “Well, then, at least it is  _ your _ job,” he said. “I don’t think I could bear going through this with one of your, er, colleagues.”

Crowley looked at him, arching an eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses. “They are a sorry lot,” he said, to mask his pleasure at the off-hand appraisal. Every so often, Aziraphale would allude to enjoying Crowley’s company, and he relished it every single time. “Though, I could say the same for yours,” he added, looking away again, a tad bashful. 

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Aziraphale said. 

“I do hope there’s nothing  _ too _ wrong with the child,” Crowley said, beginning to ramble, needing a distraction from Aziraphale. “We’ll see how he reacts to the dog, anyway. That should tell us something. I  _ hope _ he’ll send it back, or be frightened of it. If he  _ does _ name it, we’ve lost. He’ll have all his powers and Armageddon is just around the corner.”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. “I think,” he said. “I think I’ll see you there.” He rubbed his hands together and stood up. “I should get on, then. Much to plan.”

“Don’t wear a top hat,” Crowley warned.

“But then where would the rabbit come from, my dear boy?” Aziraphale looked absolutely ecstatic. “See you Wednesday.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Aziraphale left, and Crowley stayed on the bench, utterly exhausted.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Crowley slept.

* * *

**Wednesday**

The party was a disaster, and not just because of Aziraphale’s awful magic tricks.

The ride back to the bookshop was very quiet.

_ No dog. Wrong boy.  _ How on Earth had Crowley screwed up so badly?

Once they caught wind of this downstairs, he was as good as gone. All those years of planning, of playing godfathers with Aziraphale, and they were back to square one. No, worse—they were far, far behind square one. Whatever square they were at, it was in the negatives.

It was happening—Armageddon, Doomsday, whatever you wanted to call it. It was happening, and all Crowley wanted to do now was get drunk.

Unfortunately, before he could get properly smashed, he felt a change.

“The hellhound has found its master,” Crowley said with an overwhelming feeling of dread.

“Are you sure?”

“I felt it. Would I lie to you?”

“Obviously. You’re a demon. That’s what you do.”

Crowley could have strangled Aziraphale. He’d never lied to him… only kept certain things hidden. Nothing important, anyway. It hurt to think the angel believed he would deceive him. After everything, they were now allies more than they were enemies. Crowley wouldn’t go back on that. Especially not now.

“No, I’m not lying,” he said quietly. “The boy, wherever he is, has the dog. He’s named it. It’s done. He’s coming into his power.” Fear crawled up Crowley’s throat. “We’re doomed.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale at least had the decency to look a little worried. “Welcome to the end times.”

He went to take a sip from his glass, but then paused, looking anxious.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” the angel mused.

Crowley snorted, but it was devoid of any amusement. “Need I remind you again about  _ The Sound of Music _ ?”

Aziraphale gagged a little, and then drank heartily from his glass.

“For what it’s worth, you still haven’t done anything technically wrong,” Crowley said, already settling into the familiar thrum of alcohol in his veins. Or whatever celestial equivalent he had to veins, anyway. “You still spent eleven years trying to thwart demonic influences on who we  _ thought _ the Antichrist was.”

“I’m not sure I was quite successful at that, either,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “He turned out rather…”

“Bratty?” Crowley supplied. “Hellish?”

“I was going to say unpleasant.” He sighed. “You said it was him.”

“It  _ was _ him,” said Crowley. “I mean, I should know, shouldn’t I?”

“Then someone else must be interfering.”

“There isn’t anyone else!” Crowley was beginning to feel very frustrated. “There’s just us, right? Good and Evil. One side or the other.” That’s all they were, really, when it came down to it. Or that’s the way things were supposed to be. Aziraphale was Good, and Crowley was Evil. He had forgotten that, gotten distracted, and along the way made a terrible error. “You’d be amazed at the kind of things they can do to you, down there,” he said bitterly, taking a drink.

“I imagine they’re very similar to the sort of things they can do to one up there,” Aziraphale said.

“Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy,” said Crowley sourly. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “It hardly matters now. We’ll have to find the  _ real _ boy as quickly as we can, before Heaven finds out.”

“Or Hell,” Crowley said, nodding. He drained his glass, then let it hit the table with a resonant  _ thunk _ . “Suppose we should get going, then.”

He started to stand, but paused when Aziraphale said, “Oh, Crowley, let it wait until tomorrow.” He sounded so lost, so resigned, that Crowley sunk back into his seat. He succumbed to the angel’s requests too easily these days. Aziraphale stared into his glass. “We’ve spent the last eleven years with a misplaced Antichrist. One more night can’t do much harm.”

It was so very unlike Aziraphale that Crowley was rendered silent. What was he supposed to do? Ask if everything was alright? He knew the answer already. There was no point.

He stretched out a hand towards Aziraphale over the table, wiggling his fingers. When the angel frowned at him, not understanding, Crowley pointed to the glass in his hands.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and handed the glass over. Crowley filled it to the brim and handed it back. “Thank you.”

They clinked their glasses, and drank.

They loosened up before long, Crowley’s sunglasses ending up on the table, Aziraphale’s tartan tie unravelling and hanging limply around his neck. 

“It’s so much  _ pressure _ , from down there, y’know?” Crowley rambled, his elbows propped up on the table, chin in his hands. “Do this, do that, make trouble, deliver the Antichrist. Can’t catch a break!”

“Like I said earlier, the  _ memos _ —”

“And have you been entirely truthful in your memos to upstairs? Eh?” Crowley asked. “Didn’t think so. The Archangel fucking Gabriel wouldn’t like you so much if he knew about the Arrangement, would he?”

“He doesn’t really like me, anyway,” Aziraphale pouted. “None of them do. Prob’ly only put me down here to get me outta the way.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. The other demons didn’t like him much, either. Likely due to the fact that he really hadn’t done anything  _ bad _ . Demons were all about sin, these days. Tempting priests here, corrupting politicians there. They didn’t understand his work on the M25, or his ability to bring down phone lines. Recently, he’d gotten very good at making Wi-Fi connections work at a snail’s pace.

Crowley had making trouble down to an  _ art _ , and he didn’t get so much as a thank-you note anymore.

He blinked, returning to the conversation. Right. Aziraphale, looking absolutely downtrodden at the idea of not being liked by the other angels. That just couldn’t stand; he didn’t like seeing his angel sad.

“Not that it prob’ly means much, but s’their loss,” he supplied, trying to come across nonchalant, but ultimately sounding a little wistful. Damn it all, he was too drunk to care.

Aziraphale smiled a little. “It does mean quite a bit, Crowley. Thank you. I enjoy your company, as well.”

Crowley wondered, briefly, what life might have been like if he hadn’t Fallen. If he and Aziraphale had been equals, both in Heaven. If they would still be friends.

Much like every other thought that ran too deep, he shoved it aside to think about another day.

It was only too bad that the days were running out.

* * *

**Thursday**

The next morning, Crowley’s head was pounding. Instead of sobering up instantly, he’d slept the alcohol off. He wasn’t sure how much free time he’d have in the coming days, so stocking up on sleep now was likely a good idea.

The hangover wasn’t helping with his wallowing. A brief check-in from Hastur, and now his mood was even worse. 

As far as demons went, it was hard to be a screw-up. They were, in fact,  _ all _ screw-ups by definition. It was literally their job. And yet Crowley still managed to screw-up being a screw-up. 

When you’d already been thrown out of Heaven, and Hell didn’t want you anymore, where did you go?

Crowley didn’t want to know.

He yelled at his plants with extra vigour that morning.

***

Later, in the car with Aziraphale, his self-wallowing had turned into self-defence, and he was deflecting any fault with rapid succession.

“You’ve lost the boy—”

“ _ We’ve _ lost.”

“A child has been lost. But you still know—”

“ _ We know _ —”

“His age! Birthday! He’s eleven!”

Aziraphale had a new energy to him, as well. A nervous energy, granted, but an energy nonetheless. It might have been due to Crowley’s driving, but Crowley couldn’t find it in him to care. The world was ending, what was one less pedestrian?

If he drove a little more recklessly than usual, just to spite Aziraphale, it was nobody’s business but his own.

***

Crowley didn’t notice anything strange upon arriving at Tadfield Manor, other than that it looked decidedly less hospital-ish than it did eleven years ago. 

Aziraphale’s sudden hand on his arm made him stop. Immediately, his defenses rose. As much as they were friends, or as chummy as any angel and demon could be after thousands of years together, they didn’t make physical contact very much. His senses heightened at the sensation. Alarmed, Crowley waited for an explanation.

“It feels loved.”

Crowley looked around, bewildered.  _ This  _ place felt loved?

“What do you mean, loved?”

“I mean the opposite of when you say, ‘I don’t like this place, it feels spooky.’”

“I don’t ever say that. I like spooky. Big spooky fan, me. Let’s go talk to some nuns.” He was trying very hard not to dwell on the euphoric expression on Aziraphale’s face. If he hadn’t been so focused on ignoring that, he might have felt that they were being watched.

His first instinct upon being shot was,  _ Oh, wonderful. First I screw up with the baby, now I’ll need to go through loads of paperwork for a new body _ . 

His second thought was,  _ Has Aziraphale been shot, as well? _

With relief, he heard the angel’s voice. “Blue?”

“Oh, it’s paint.” Honestly—humans were sometimes so diabolical that they hardly needed evil influences. What twisted soul invented being shot with paint for fun? At least they wouldn’t have to get a new body. He’d become rather fond of this one, and Aziraphale’s, too.

Aziraphale wasn’t as relieved. “Look at the state of this coat! I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over one hundred and eighty years now. I’ll never get this stain out!”

“You could miracle it away.” 

“Yes, but… well, I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.” 

He had such pathetic puppy-dog eyes that Crowley felt something deep in the depths of his soul twitch and twist and flip inside out. What was worse, Aziraphale was undoubtedly doing this intentionally. He could have easily miracled away the spot on his own, yet he was asking Crowley to do it for him.  _ Bastard _ .

With a grudging realization that he would really do anything for this angel, Crowley blew the paint splatter away, blue dust flaking away and following the wind. And Aziraphale smiled.

“Oh, thank you.” 

Crowley filed that smile and glance away for a rainy day, pushing it to the back of his mind with the others.

He remained quiet for much of the rest of the conversation, watching Aziraphale move about excitedly, examining the paintball gun, and rattling off about moral arguments. Now it was Crowley’s turn to smile. 

Some thoughts marched steadily towards the frontlines:

  1. Firstly, he might have to perform minor miracles for Aziraphale more often, if it would earn him that smile again.
  2. Secondly, if the world really was coming to an end, at least he would get to spend them alongside his friend.
  3. Thirdly, he decided that Aziraphale wasn’t _just_ his friend, but his _best_ friend, seeing as he really had no others.



He made the thoughts fall back. Back to the task at hand.

It was the very presence of these thoughts that made Crowley so defensive about being called ‘nice’. Pushed aside as they were, they were still there, as all thoughts are. Thoughts don’t simply vanish. Maybe it was simply a little embarrassing that his only friend in the world was an angel, and that most of his time was spent thinking of ways to make said angel smile. 

That just couldn’t stand for Crowley. Someone between them would have to remind them who here was a demon.

That was how Aziraphale ended up pressed against the wall. Perhaps  _ I’m a demon, I’m not nice, I’m never nice, nice is a four letter word _ wasn’t the most articulate of ways to express it, but it wasn’t as if he was a master wordsmith. Aziraphale had been the friend of Shakespeare, not him. 

What was worse was that Aziraphale didn’t look the slightest bit worried for his safety, even cornered by a demon. He didn’t struggle, or even attempt to push Crowley away. He just stood there, staring intently into Crowley’s eyes.

“Excuse me, gentlemen? Sorry to break up an intimate moment. Can I help you?”

Crowley turned towards the voice of the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale take a moment to react, his eyes lingering on Crowley for just a moment longer than necessary before glancing over at the interruption.

“You.”

The nun. The one he’d given the baby to. To her credit, the woman actually recognized him. Crowley liked to think he was memorable, despite the ever-changing hairstyles and such, but considering everyone had been apparently distracted on the ever-important night of the delivering of the Antichrist, he was pleased to have been ingrained in the woman’s memory.

He snapped his fingers, and she shut up. Aziraphale stepped away from the wall, finally, and straightened himself out, looking only mildly bothered. “You didn’t have to do that,” he sighed. “You could have just asked her.”

Crowley’s defences went up once again. Pretending as if he hadn’t just mildly threatened Aziraphale, he slipped back into a tone that always worked as a cushion—sarcasm. “Oh. Of course, of course. Excuse me, ma’am, we’re two supernatural entities just looking for the notorious Son of Satan. Wonder if you might help us with our enquiries!” 

He was adjusting his stupid tartan bowtie. If only Crowley wouldn’t get in so much trouble for miracling  _ that _ away. It certainly wouldn’t earn him any smiles.

Throughout their somewhat ludicrous interrogation, Crowley kept glancing over at Aziraphale. Something had shifted, and he wasn’t sure what. It was likely his own fault, getting defensive. He might decide to work on that, if they survived the end of the world. 

He drove quite fast when they left. 

Beside him, Aziraphale’s thoughts were spinning as a little piece of a six thousand year old puzzle clicked into place.

It gave Crowley a strange sense of ease, speeding away down the road. And perhaps it was also due to the fact that it gave Aziraphale so much anxiety that Crowley felt he had the upper hand for once. 

“If we don’t find him, it won’t be the war to end all wars. It’ll be the war to end everything,” Crowley said, a little desperately.

He glanced sidelong at Aziraphale, who was bracing himself against the ceiling of the car, trying his very best not to look sick to his metaphorical stomach. He took pity, and slowed down slightly. 

The sun was setting on yet another unsuccessful day of trying to find the blasted Antichrist. Time was ticking away. 

“Surely ‘everything’ is a little dramatic,” Aziraphale said.

“Everything as  _ we _ know it,” said Crowley. “The world ends, Heaven and Hell go to war, and then what? One side wins. The Earth becomes their playground.”

Aziraphale sighed. “No more bookshop,” he said, repeating what Crowley had said to him in St. James Park. 

“Uh-huh.” The sky went darker around them. He patted the steering wheel affectionately. “No more car.”

“That won’t be much of a loss, I’m afraid.”

Crowley made a disgruntled noise of disagreement. Aziraphale took the position of best friend, but the Bentley was a close second. 

“I’m only joking, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“You better be,” Crowley mumbled, seeing his companion’s little smile out of the corner of his eye, and pointedly ignoring the way something bloomed inside his chest when he dwelled on the image of it.

Aziraphale shuffled in his seat. His tone changed. “There’s a very peculiar feeling to this whole area. I’m astonished you can’t feel it.”

“I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary,” Crowley said quickly. It was, in some ways, a lie. No, more of an omission. He didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary in particular with  _ Tadfield _ , however he did believe that his own certain feelings towards a certain angel were certainly not ordinary. Certainly. 

“But it’s everywhere. All over here,” said Aziraphale. He gasped a little. “Love. Flashes of love!”

Internally, Crowley began to panic. Had he been so obvious? “You’re being ridiculous,” he said. Aziraphale had never mentioned  _ flashes of love _ before today, and Crowley had tried so very hard to push any and all feelings aside when he was around him.

He was very acutely aware of Aziraphale staring at him. It took everything to keep his cool expression neutral.  _ Why me? Why now? He’s had six thousand years, and two days until Doomsday he decides to notice? _

Best to nip it in the bud while he still had the chance. “The last thing we need right now is—”

Then a few things happened very quickly.

There was the sound of impact, and a scream as a woman and her bike soared over the front of the Bentley. Aziraphale yelped and instinctively moved his hand to clutch Crowley’s knee, and Crowley slammed on the breaks, eyes wide behind his sunglasses.

Uncertainty and a bit of shock hung in the air around them. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale moved for quite a long moment. 

Aziraphale pulled his hand away. “You hit someone.” 

“I didn’t.” They looked at one another. “Someone hit me.”

Well, then. Dodged that conversation.

***

They drove away from the young woman’s cottage, and Aziraphale was smiling a little, as if pleased with himself.

“Why must you insist on saving everyone?” Crowley asked, his sunglasses still on. Night had fallen completely now, but it didn’t bother him much. Demons could see perfectly well in the dark.

“It was your fault that the poor woman got hit.”

“Oh, no, no. Not mine.  _ She _ wasn’t watching where she was going,” Crowley said. “That’s not my fault.”

“So you just expect me to leave her in a ditch in the middle of the night?” Aziraphale scoffed. “Honestly, Crowley.”

“Told you I’m not nice.” 

A beat of silence. “Yes, about that—”

“Don’t.”

“No, really, Crowley. I’m terribly sorry if I made you uncomfortable, however it must be said that you are quite nice, as demons go,” Aziraphale went on, and Crowley simply wanted to discorporate on the spot. He would even go as far as to crash his prized Bentley, but unfortunately, he had run out of young women on bikes to crash into. The angel kept talking. “I should know. We’ve been friends for so long that I often forget other demons  _ aren’t _ as nice as you.”

Thank whoever that it was dark. The blush of a demon was unbecoming, in Crowley’s opinion.

He drove on in silence.

***

Crowley was still deep in thought even as they stopped for a bite to eat, or in his case, a coffee. He was despondent, sluggish. Aziraphale had all these ideas for finding the Antichrist. Meanwhile, Crowley felt off. He couldn’t even think of what water slides off of, for Hell’s sake. 

“Look, there’s something I should tell you.”

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale from the driver’s seat. They were back on the road, and this had been just a terrible, horrible idea, he decided. All of this time, just the two of them, in his Bentley, the end of the world on the horizon. Forget spending time together. He would much rather curl up in bed until the apocalypse passed. Then he wouldn’t have to go through these conversations.

“I have a…  _ network _ of highly trained human agents spread across the country,” Aziraphale went on.

Crowley exhaled very quietly through his nose, relieved. It wasn’t a continuation of the  _ flashes of love _ conversation, then. Good. As long as things stayed perfectly neutral, maybe, just maybe, he could survive this drive.

Arriving at Aziraphale’s bookshop was quite the relief. That is, until Aziraphale started acting strange. One moment, they were talking about sending their operatives to look for the boy, and the next he was clutching the woman’s lost book and looking rather shaken up by something.

“Absolutely tickety-boo!”

“Tickety-boo?” Crowley echoed. 

“Mind how you go!” The door shut with a resounding echo in the street, leaving Crowley to sulk against his Bentley, chin resting on his hands on the roof of the car. 

“Right,” he sighed. “Well, that was a thing.”

What had he done this time to upset Aziraphale? He replayed the conversation in his head, but he couldn’t figure it out. Just lucky to be out of Crowley’s hair, he thought sadly. Crowley stayed there for a few moments, just watching the storefront from behind his sunglasses, until he finally sighed, climbed back into his car, and sped away before he could convince himself to do something stupid, like follow Aziraphale inside.

* * *

**Friday**

How early, Crowley wondered, was too early to ring Aziraphale?

He let the sun come up, and was pacing his flat for several long hours, wondering how long he should wait before calling. He tended to his plants, which involved a lot of therapeutic yelling, and in the case of one lucky philodendron, a spilling of emotions. He threatened to clip the plant’s finest leaves if it told the others that he had any feelings other than rage and cool indifference.

When he finally plucked up the courage to call, Aziraphale was equally as strange, if not more so, than he had been when they departed the night before. 

“Any news? Found the missing Antichrist yet?” asked Crowley, hoping that was a perfectly neutral way to start a conversation. He’d spent all morning rehearsing it.

“No! No news,” came Aziraphale’s voice. “Nothing, nothing at all. If I had anything, I would tell you, obviously. Immediately. We’re friends! Why would you even ask?”

“Oh, there’s no news here either.” Crowley tried not to sound disappointed in the fact that with no news, there wasn’t much else for them to talk about. “Call me if you find anything.”

“Absolutely! Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

He hung up before Crowley had a chance to say anything, and the demon stood there, staring at his phone receiver, wondering what had gotten into Aziraphale. Did he just want to get away from talking to Crowley that badly?

Well, fine. If things were like that, Crowley would keep busy with other things.

***

Meeting with Shadwell was always something of an  _ experience _ . The man was clearly delusional, but he and the Witchfinder Army were all Crowley had in terms of human intelligence, though the word  _ intelligence _ might have been a bit strong.

Normally, he might take more joy in messing with Shadwell a bit, but he didn’t have the heart for it today.

It was a sad day on Earth when Crowley didn’t even have the energy for a bit of witty banter.

“Call me if you find anything,” he sighed, and left the diner. 

The man was clearly incompetent. Crowley was running out of options. He was running out of  _ time _ . Hell was catching up to him; he knew they would sooner or later. There was nowhere on Earth he could hide where they wouldn’t find him.

Maybe if he wasn’t  _ on _ Earth…

He got in his Bentley and started driving. If they couldn’t find the Antichrist, if they couldn’t save Earth, maybe they could just give up on Earth completely. But he couldn’t possibly leave all on his own. The moment he got back to his flat, he ran for the phone.

Aziraphale picked up after one ring. 

“It’s me,” said Crowley, heart pounding. “Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous.”

Aziraphale stammered. “Is that the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, or the British Museum café?”

“The bandstand! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 

Crowley hadn’t driven so fast in his life. 

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley _ . 

It was time that Aziraphale caught up. 

He couldn’t sit around and wait any longer. The end of the world was a day away, and they weren’t any closer to saving it. But Crowley would be damned— _ again _ —if he didn’t save the one thing that really mattered to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> At the end of each chapter I’m going to share a song from my personal “ineffable husbands” playlist. Today’s pick is "You Still Believe In Me" by YVA. 
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:  
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
> My twitter is [anthonyjcrowiey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowiey)
> 
> **Up Next: Present Day (The Apocalypse) - Part II**


	4. Present Day (The Apocalypse) - Part II

**Friday Afternoon**

Crowley arrived at the bandstand first, anxiously pacing. This conversation wouldn’t be like the request for holy water, or convincing Aziraphale to raise Warlock with him. This was something much, much bigger.

He just hoped Aziraphale was ready to hear it.

The outburst about the  _ great blasted plan _ might have been a bit much, but Crowley was done playing around. 

“May you be forgiven,” said Aziraphale.

“I won’t be forgiven,” said Crowley, willing Aziraphale to understand just how  _ screwed _ they were if they didn’t find the boy. “Not ever. That’s part of a demon’s job description. Unforgivable, that’s what I am.” And Hell wouldn’t forgive him for this. 

“You were an angel once,” Aziraphale said timidly, looking at him in a way that made all of Crowley’s defences crumble.

“That was a long time ago,” he said sadly.

Their conversation went in circles. He was losing his confidence. It struck a nerve, to hear Aziraphale say  _ You’re the demon, I’m the nice one _ . Did he really think Heaven was so much better than Hell, that  _ he _ was so much better than Crowley? 

_ I am a great deal holier-than-thou. That’s the whole point _ .

Crowley became aware of how close they were standing. Well, that was it, then. Aziraphale’s words cut him deeply. He had so many things he wanted to say. 

_ After all this time, you still think of me that way? _

_ You can give me holy water, but you can’t give me this? _

_ Why can’t you see that as long as you and I survive, the rest doesn’t matter? _

“This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you,” said Crowley.

“Well frankly, neither do I.”

“Enough, I’m leaving.” He couldn’t take it any longer. Aziraphale had never been  _ his _ angel; he was still one of Heaven’s pawns, not brave enough to go against his precious Almighty. Not even to save the world—to save  _ them _ .

Crowley barely got ten feet away.

“You can’t leave, Crowley! There isn’t anywhere to go.”

The hurt in his voice made Crowley turn. “It’s a big universe!” This was it, his chance to ask. It took every last shred of courage he had. “Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can—go off, together.” His voice softened. He couldn’t help it.

Aziraphale’s face slowly shifted, a subtle look of shock and confusion. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “Go off… together?”

For a brief moment, Crowley thought he might say yes.

But nothing good ever happened to demons.

“Listen to yourself,” said Aziraphale.

“How long have we been friends?” Crowley asked. “Six thousand years!”

“Friends? We’re not friends! We are an angel and a demon!” But Aziraphale wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. “We have nothing whatsoever in common! I don’t even like you!” 

“You do!” Crowley’s insides were churning, burning hotter than Hell itself. He, a demon, had done everything he could to be genuine with Aziraphale. And here the angel was, lying to his face. And probably to himself, too.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was, I wouldn’t tell you! We’re on opposite sides!”

The angel was slipping away from him, falling right through Crowley’s fingers. “We’re on  _ our _ side.”

“There is no ‘our side’, Crowley! Not anymore. It’s over.”

_ It’s over _ .

It hurt more than when he Fell from Heaven. 

“Right.” Crowley stared long and hard at Aziraphale. That was it, then. Suddenly, he didn’t care so much if the world ended. “Well, then.” He turned and started walking. “Have a nice Doomsday.”

He walked. 

_ Please say something _ .

He didn’t look back.

_ Call my name. Anything _ .

He kept walking.

_ Tell me it isn’t over. _

But Aziraphale just silently watched him go.

* * *

**Saturday**

Crowley didn’t water his plants that morning. By the end of the day they would all be dust, anyway.

“Where should I go?” he mused, twirling his globe. Everything within him felt flattened like the pages of a book. 

_ No, don’t think of books. They remind you of Aziraphale. _

He perused his options, looking at various nebulas and galaxies, celestial bodies where he could make his new home. (No matter how many he looked at, there was really only one celestial body that mattered.) 

It had to be somewhere so far away that Hell couldn’t find him, but maybe an angel could. 

“Alpha Centauri.” A big capital A, for Aziraphale. All of the letters in Alpha were also in Aziraphale, he noted bitterly. Crowley flicked the page away. “That’s always nice this time of year.” He would consider it.

Slumped against his throne, he cast his gaze to the sky. “I only ever asked questions,” he said. “That’s all it took to be a demon in the old days!” 

It wasn’t fair that he was meant to be evil, just because he was a demon. He hadn’t done anything terrible. But Aziraphale still thought that made him better than Crowley, didn’t he?  _ I am a great deal holier-than-thou _ . 

He’d thought over their conversation so many times throughout the night that the words were practically branded into his soul.

He pleaded to God one last time. “You shouldn’t test them to destruction. Not to the end of the world.”

What kind of demon was he, to pray to God during the end times? 

***

One of the small joys of humanity that Crowley partook in that wasn’t alcohol or coffee was the cinema. He rather liked moving pictures, actually. If ever Aziraphale had mentioned a book to him that had a movie version, Crowley usually saw it. The angel would always insist that the book was better, but Crowley really wasn’t much for reading. 

He decided to catch one last movie before the end of the world. His schedule, like his heart, had suddenly opened up.

Crowley had not bothered to buy a ticket. In his world, buying tickets was something that happened to other people.

It was a children’s movie, but it was all that was on. Still, he was rather enjoying it. It was something of a mental reprieve. At least, until Hastur showed up.

“You stay where you are! We’re coming to collect you!” Hastur warned as he ripped apart some cartoon bunnies on screen. Crowley was already on his feet and out the door. 

Time was up.

***

He’d given himself one last chance. Or rather, he’d given  _ Aziraphale _ one last chance.

The Bentley skidded to a stop when Crowley saw him walking along the street, not even bothering to park properly. Aziraphale saw him and stopped, a perplexed look on his face, as if he didn’t know why Crowley was there. He was acting so daft, it was  _ infuriating _ .

“Angel!” Crowley called, running up to the sidewalk. He felt desperate now, with time so short. This was his only chance to convince him. “I’m sorry. I apologize. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here! Yes? Good. Get in the car.”

“What? No!” 

Crowley’s soul twisted and screamed inside him. “The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault. But we can run away together! Alpha Centauri!” He gestured wildly to the sky, hoping—no,  _ needing _ Aziraphale to say yes. “Lots of spare planets up there, nobody would even notice us!”

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. Look, I’m quite sure if I can just reach the right people, then I can get all this sorted out.” 

He was stammering, panicking, and he looked as scared as Crowley felt. Crowley rushed towards him, reaching for him, not physically, necessarily, but spiritually. Willing him with every fibre in the universe to _just_ _say yes._

“There aren’t any right people. There’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us!” 

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.”

“That won’t happen!” That was his big plan? Crowley was bewildered beyond belief. Aziraphale had only ever been so smart. He wasn’t perfect, he was naive and oblivious and sometimes a bit of a prat, but he was also pure and good and everything right in the world. He was  _ Crowley’s _ world. “You’re so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?” 

Not just about this, he thought. Emotionally, Aziraphale had never even come close to Crowley. Yes, he moved fast, but at least he lived and loved and  _ felt _ things, while Aziraphale puttered along just admiring the view and reading his little books. It wasn’t anything wrong with Aziraphale—maybe it was something wrong with him. But at least Crowley knew how he felt, even if he could never be with his angel, and this was all just some big cosmic joke on him.

“I forgive you.”

Crowley swayed on his feet, feeling lightheaded. 

_ Unforgivable, that’s what I am _ . Words he’d spoken a day earlier.

But Aziraphale forgave him, even if God didn’t.

Crowley sighed, and ran back to the car. “I’m going home, angel,” he said, his voice weak, like it was about it crack. Something inside him had certainly broken. “I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving. And when I am off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

Demons didn’t cry. Crowley was glad for it, because if he was human, his tears would have prevented him from watching the road.

***

The whole holy water bit hadn’t gone quite as well as he’d hoped. The plant mister was an oversight—the product of an emotionally wrecked demon who, in human terms, had just gotten dumped. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on why Aziraphale was calling him. When faced with a demon like Hastur, he had to push all thoughts of the angel aside. (Thankfully, over the years he had gotten quite good at that.) But it had given him an idea, a brilliant idea in his opinion, and he was disappointed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. 

With Hastur taken care of, and having just travelled through his answering machine, he heard Aziraphale’s voice as clearly as if it was in his own head.  _ I know where the Antichrist is! _

He had no time to spare. 

He had nowhere to go. 

He went anyway. He ran down to his Bentley and drove towards the West End as if all the demons of Hell were after him. Which was more or less the case.

***

Panic clutched at Crowley’s insides each time he rung Aziraphale, over and over, willing him to  _ please just pick up you stupid prat I’m done playing games. _

Then he saw the smoke.

Falling from Heaven had been hard. Falling for Aziraphale had been harder. But nothing,  _ nothing _ could have prepared Crowley for the big hole that opened beneath him at the realization that he would never see Aziraphale again.

That hole swallowed him, chewed him up, and spit him back out into a Soho pub where he was determined to drink until the world ended.

Now that Aziraphale was gone, running away seemed pointless. What was the use in going to live on his own planet in Alpha Centauri, when he had no one to share it with? The world would end, Hell could catch up to him, and he’d be sentenced to holy water or whatever. It didn’t really matter. 

He was sufficiently drunk. He hadn’t been this drunk since, oh, probably the seventies, a few years after the whole  _ You go too fast for me _ business, when he was sorely missing his best friend and was trying very hard not to visit his bookshop. It was a good thing voicemail hadn’t been invented yet, because he likely would have sent a terribly embarrassing one if it had. That night of drinking had also given him the genius idea for the M25.

He was probably drunker now. Especially since he began to hallucinate that Aziraphale was sitting across from him. Well, not really Aziraphale, but more of a blobby, ghosty thingy that resembled him.

“Aziraphale?” he said, longingly, his hands stilling on the new bottle he was trying to open. It was a very stubborn bottle.

The image in front of him sharpened slightly, and he felt a wave of angelic power sweep across the room. No, he wasn’t hallucinating at all. He lifted his glasses in disbelief, squinting at the angel’s non-corporeal form. “Are you here?” he asked. He must be dreaming.

“Good question! Not certain. Never done this before,” said Aziraphale, and yes, Crowley might be drunk, but he wasn’t drunk enough to hallucinate that voice. It shocked him how much he missed hearing it, after only a few hours. “Can you hear me?”

He barely noticed his glasses falling back onto his face. “Of course I can hear you.”

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.” That was one way of putting it. But it dawned on Crowley slowly (drunkenly) that somehow, Aziraphale was still alive. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah, changed m’mind,” Crowley croaked, fighting back his emotions. The problem was, it was very hard to do so when you weren’t sober. And everything had become a bit… much. Pushing away those feelings for centuries was exhausting, and so was thinking you’ve lost a loved one forever— _ the  _ loved one. Crowley really wasn’t up for suppressing his emotions anymore. 

“Stuff happened,” he said sadly. His chin quivered a little. “I lost my best friend.”

He couldn’t keep his eyes off Aziraphale’s form, non-corporeal as it was, because it still looked like him, albeit a little more wobbly. And Aziraphale just looked so sad, so full of regret. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” he said. His eyes still sparkled, Crowley thought, even when he didn’t have a physical form. “Listen, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

A cloud of sadness descended on Crowley. Aziraphale didn’t even  _ know _ . “Oh.” He put his chin in his hand. “Look, your bookshop isn’t there anymore. I’m really sorry, it burned down.” He felt guilty, like he should have done something. Should have been there. He could have helped Aziraphale with whatever plan he’d had, and then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt and the bookshop would still be standing. 

But he hadn’t been there. He’d been running away.

Aziraphale was very silent, and Crowley studied him, glad he was drunk, so he had an excuse to look. Sober Crowley didn’t look lovingly at his angel. Drunk Crowley, on the other hand, liked to look at his angel very much. 

“All of it?”

It was very hard to form words. “Yeah. What—what was the book?”

“The one the young lady with the bicycle left behind. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of—”

“Agnes Nutter!” Crowley shrieked, pulling the book out from his lap. He had, embarrassingly, cradled it for a while once the alcohol had started kicking in. It was the only trace left of Aziraphale’s things, and it had that old parchment smell that the angel always carried with him, though this book smelled a bit more smoky.

But still, he’d done a good thing! He’d saved the book! Aziraphale was bound to be delighted. “Yes, I took it! Look, souvenir!” He pointed at the book proudly. Finally,  _ finally, _ Crowley had done something right. Something Aziraphale approved of. That was all he’d ever wanted, really.

“Look inside, I made notes! It’s all in there. The boy’s name, address… Everything else. I worked it all out.”

Crowley opened the book and perused its contents, too drunk to really read it but still seeing all of the work Aziraphale had done.  _ This _ was what he’d been doing while Crowley had been pining after him, talking of running away to another planetary system? Well, now he was embarrassed.

Crowley had no intention of finding this boy on his own. He looked up at Aziraphale. “Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you,” he said quickly, desperately. “Where are you?”

“I’m not really anywhere, yet. I’ve been discorporated.”

“Oh,” Crowley said gravely, leaning back in his chair. That was unfortunate. Now Aziraphale was going on about the Tadfield Air Base, and Crowley didn’t want to go. He was drunk, and he rather liked being drunk. “I’m not going to go there,” he muttered. He just wanted to find Aziraphale. He had no intention of going anywhere without Aziraphale.

“I do need a body. Pity I can’t inhabit yours.”

Crowley cringed. That wouldn’t do him any good. Then he wouldn’t be able to look at his angel and touch and talk to him like humans would. Plus, it might destroy his body, and that would just make things awkward for the both of them.

“So I’ll meet you at Tadfield. But we’re both gonna have to get a bit of a wiggle-on.”

“What?”

“Tadfield Air Base.” Aziraphale had begun to fade away.

“I heard that, it was the ‘wiggle-on’...” Crowley realized the angel’s amorphous figure had faded away completely, and he was now alone again. He sat back in his chair, and glanced around. It would be nice if one of the other bar patrons suddenly developed a posh vernacular and a taste for tartan bowties, but none of them moved, so it seemed as if none were receptive to Aziraphale inhabiting them. 

With one final wistful sigh, Crowley sobered up. Aziraphale was heading to Tadfield Air Base, so that was where he’d go, too. 

***

Crowley arrived at the air base with rather high spirits. He’d avoided Hastur, crossed the M25, and his car had made it the entire way, sort of, if it could really still be considered a car. It was car-shaped, vaguely, but among the burning metal and rubber it was really hard to tell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice came from a little old woman, and alright, it would take some getting used to, but it was better than talking to an amorphous blob.

“Hey, Aziraphale! I see you found a ride,” he said, feeling quite chipper as he sauntered over, book in hand. “Nice dress, suits you.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale looked ever so pleased at the compliment. Crowley tried not to dwell on it. “This young man won’t let us in.”

He leaned in close as he said, “Leave it to me.” It was a little pathetic, seeking Aziraphale’s proximity when the world was moments away from ending, but hey, if they were all going to die, he might as well enjoy the small things.

He wanted to swoop in and help out by getting them into the air base, to impress Aziraphale with his demonic prowess. The blasted Antichrist himself beat him to it, cycling in with his friends and opening up the gates.

Well then. That was that.

And then his car exploded.

Look, it was a lot to process losing two friends in one day, even if one did end up coming back. The Bentley had been a solid friend for ninety years, his only constant besides Aziraphale, so he let himself have a moment to mourn.

It definitely felt like the end of the world now.

Aziraphale was yelling at him, but for the first time in a long time, the angel wasn’t his main concern. He barely even registered the words, and then Aziraphale walked away, and Crowley stared at his Bentley. 

Six thousand years on this planet, and he had nothing to show for it. Aziraphale had his bookshop; millennias of collecting, a warm place to go home to at the end of the day. 

Crowley had nothing. 

“Rest in peace. You were a good car.” He kissed the piece of debris and then turned, tucking it under his arm and returning to Aziraphale’s side. His insides were flaming as much as the car wreck at the realization that the end of the world was moments away, and he had nothing. Not a single thing that he could call his own. There was nothing he could lose that he hadn’t lost already. What was the point of Earth, anyway? 

“Nice work on the soldier.” He hadn’t thought the angel had it in him to do that to a human, but that was the end of the world for you. Even angels got tired of doing the right thing.

Aziraphale’s timid charm wasn’t getting through to Crowley anymore. Beyond the chain-link fence, he saw army jeeps and soldiers assembling, and those kids were in there, so they better get moving. He wouldn’t have any dead children on his conscience, no thank you.

“Oh, okay. I need to get over the car thing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Aziraphale. “I’ll deal with them.”

As he walked, he tried to shake away his nerves. Remember what he was here for. Maybe he hadn’t done the whole Earth-living properly, but there were plenty of people who did. Aziraphale did. Aziraphale loved Earth as much as he did; maybe more. 

If not for anything else, he could convince himself to save the world for Aziraphale.

“We are here to lick some serious butt!” Aziraphale’s voice brought him out of his thoughts. Honestly, how did he spend so many years on Earth and manage to screw up modern sayings so badly? 

(He didn’t know that Aziraphale had said this on purpose, trying to cheer him up. It worked.)

A little while later, they weren’t any closer to saving the world, but it was a little bit closer to being destroyed. The boy, though—the Antichrist—was coping rather well, actually.

“Excuse me, why are you two people?” The Antichrist looked unphased by the fact that a little old lady with a very large and old-timey gun had almost shot him. 

“Ah, long story. You see, I was in my bookshop—”

“It’s not right. You should go back to being two separate people again.”

The boy didn’t even have to blink, and Aziraphale oozed out of Madame Tracy and into what appeared to be his original body. Crowley watched with rapt attention, impressed. It was a kind thing to do, especially for a child who was the notorious Son of Satan.

Crowley glanced over Aziraphale’s body, happy to see it the way it was before. Nothing looked amiss, even the tartan bowtie he favoured. He wasn’t sure how the Antichrist had done it, but he didn’t really care, quite frankly. His angel was back, and he wasn’t going to ask questions.

Aziraphale returned to his side, and they watched as the boy and his friends faced off with the Horsemen. “Good to have you back,” he murmured, glancing appreciatively at the angel.

“Good to be back,” Aziraphale said, with a small smile just for him. 

“Seems like they don’t even need us,” Crowley said as the little girl slayed War right in front of them. 

“Probably a good thing we didn’t influence his upbringing,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley thought on that for a moment. Something dawned on him. It was no wonder the Antichrist had turned out such a good lad. He was left alone. He grew up human, no other influences. And he still wanted to save the world, because of course he did; it was the only influence he’d ever had. 

He looked at the flaming weapon in front of them. “Didn’t that used to be your sword?”

“I do believe it was.”

***

With the Horsemen dealt with, there were still other matters to settle. Like the coming war.

“Oh, book girl! Catch!” Crowley tossed the charred copy of  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch _ over to Anathema, who caught it dutifully. He noted a slip of paper flutter down from the pages. Aziraphale caught it. Crowley wondered vaguely what it said, but he doubted it would be of much use right now.

“Long story, no time,” Crowley said when the woman asked for an explanation. 

“Try me.”

Aziraphale shuffled forward, and Crowley watched him babble on as he tried to explain. “He—” he pointed to Crowley, “was a wily old serpent—” Crowley would much rather return to Hell than have to deal with this. They were wasting time. He shushed Aziraphale, shaking his head softly. This was embarrassing. He was in love with such an idiot.

He kept waiting for something to happen. The others chatted, and things felt too quiet. 

Crowley stumbled when Gabriel and Beelzebub appeared, nearly tripping over his own feet. He instinctively reached a hand out towards Aziraphale, and the angel, though stumbling as well, grabbed hold of his jacket sleeve and righted them both. 

He sent the angel a grateful glance and then put a bit of distance between them. Best not to appear too chummy in front of their bosses.

The poor boy was now being talked at by an Archangel and the Prince of Hell. Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Crowley was perfectly content, at the moment, to stand and watch, and wait and see what the little tyke would do. 

He panicked when Aziraphale stepped in. He wanted to grab the angel by the shoulders and pull him back, drag him safely away from the scene, but Aziraphale was already talking, and oh God, oh Satan, oh whoever, he was going to get them all into trouble.

Until he started listening, and he realized what Aziraphale was getting at. Yes, the destruction of the world was part of the Great Plan, capital-G, capital-P and everything, but that didn’t mean it was part of the  _ ineffable _ plan. Gabriel and Beezlebub didn’t even  _ know _ if that was the case, and they were the heads of their respective offices. Posers.

Crowley chimed in, stepping forward himself, standing protectively on the other side of Adam, who really, seemed quite pleasant. More pleasant than his father, definitely.

“Well, at least we know whose fault it is!” said Gabriel.

Crowley and Aziraphale grinned cheekily. Things weren’t going as badly as they’d expected. The world hadn’t ended yet, so that was a good sign. 

And then Gabriel brought up Adam’s father, and Crowley’s smile fell away. “Your father will not be pleased,” Beelzebub buzzed.

Crowley’s gaze met Aziraphale’s, both of them sporting a look of worry. God might not make many appearances, but Crowley knew that if things didn’t go the way Hell wanted, Satan himself wouldn’t be above showing up to reprimand his son.

He barely noticed when the Archangel and the demon popped out of the air base. He was more focused on the beginnings of a tremor, the kind that didn’t come just from the ground, but all around you. 

A shadow lurked at the back of Crowley’s mind, watching, rising up. Something snapped inside him, and he fell to the ground yelling, rendered weak by Satan’s presence. His very, very angry presence. It was all-consuming. Even the humans could feel it.

Crowley kept trying to stand, but there was no point. The ground shook, the air rumbled, and he felt very weak. He stared up at Aziraphale, wide-eyed, knowing that they’d failed. There was nothing left to do. 

“Right. That was that. It was nice knowing you,” said Crowley. It really had been nice, he thought. His only regret was that there was so much they hadn’t gotten to do. That picnic, for a start. 

“We can’t give up now.”

“This is Satan himself. This isn’t about Armageddon. This is personal. We are fucked!” 

The air became hot and heavy, very… Hell-like. 

Aziraphale picked up the sword. “Come up with something, or...” he started, staring at Crowley with so much intensity that the demon forgot to breathe. (It was alright, he didn’t need to breathe, anyway.) A long beat passed. After everything, was Aziraphale going to threaten to  _ kill _ him? 

He lowered the sword. Their eyes locked. “Or I’ll never talk to you again.”

Crowley simultaneously felt very cold, and began to sweat. 

Besides Aziraphale, he had nothing. He knew what it was like, spending time away from Aziraphale, and a century or so apart was nothing compared to eternity. 

_ Well, _ he thought.  _ Guess I’ll have to do something. _

***

The last day of the apocalypse ended with a demon and an angel, sitting on a bench, drinking wine. They were waiting for the bus.

There were only a few hours left of Saturday, and then it would be Sunday. As the days of the week usually went. But it would be much more than just a Sunday. It would be the first day of the rest of their lives. 

As the delivery man left them, and the bus approached, Crowley drank deeply from the bottle, needing just a little bit of courage. He might have played a hand in saving the world, but he wasn’t  _ fearless _ .

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

Crowley turned towards Aziraphale, wanting nothing more than to reach over and console him. It seemed that he’d forgotten one of the events from the day, but that could be forgiven. It had been a very long day.

“It burned down. Remember?” he asked softly. This was the part he’d needed courage for. “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Their eyes met, and Crowley gripped the bottle tightly. Going to another planetary system together was a big favour to ask, but surely going back to his flat wasn’t?

The angel looked away. “I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore.” It was about time Aziraphale realized that. “Neither of us do.” He took a deep breath. “We’re on our own side.”

Aziraphale stared off into the distance as Crowley hailed the bus. What Crowley didn’t see was the final piece of a cosmic puzzle clicking into place; a sudden realization of something that had been brewing inside of Aziraphale for approximately six thousand years.

***

Aziraphale had never actually been in Crowley’s flat. 

You would think, after being friends for so long, he would’ve been invited over sometime. But somehow, Crowley always ended up at Aziraphale’s bookshop instead. It wasn’t anything to do with demonic intervention; Aziraphale was simply polite, and Crowley was rather private, so he wasn’t going to ask to pop by without an invitation. The problem was, Crowley had never invited him before.

They sat in the kitchen not saying anything, and yet somehow saying quite a lot at once. Crowley miracled a cup of coffee, and a small plate of cheesecake appeared in front of Aziraphale, who threw him a thankful smile.

Sunday crept closer. Before the rest of their lives started, there were a few things that needed to be sorted out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He spoke slowly, delicately, hands splayed on the island counter where he sat. Crowley stood on the other side, leaning on the countertop, sunglasses perched on his nose impassively. “The whole bit about going to Alpha Centauri...”

“Mm, yes?” The demon sounded distracted. It had a lot to do with the fact that Aziraphale was in his kitchen, as if this was completely normal. He took a slow drink from his mug. 

“Why didn’t you go?”

In the blink of a yellow eye, his cup of coffee became very Irish. “Wasn’t any point, really,” he muttered over the rim of the mug. “You getting discorporated and all.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, do take off your sunglasses. It’s just me.”

The mug clacked against the granite countertop. Slowly, he lowered the glasses, folded them, and set them aside. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” Aziraphale shook his head, wringing his hands nervously. “All those things I said at the bandstand. It wasn’t right of me to insult you like that.”

“S’alright,” Crowley muttered. 

“No, it isn’t. I haven’t been fair to you. I—I’m…” He grappled for the right words, floundering. “You have to understand that angels feel in different ways than humans do. Or demons, for that matter. And… well, gosh, I’ve been rather silly about all this, haven’t I?”

Crowley didn’t say anything. If he opened his mouth, he might have thrown up quite spectacularly. He was, at the present time, contemplating turning into a snake just to avoid this conversation. 

“What I’m saying is,” Aziraphale went on, reaching over to touch the back of Crowley’s hand. “I understand now.”

“You’ve, er… caught up,” Crowley said weakly. He was rather red in the face.

“Yes, my dear. I believe I have.” He pulled his hand back and straightened up. “We could still go to Alpha Centauri, you know. Perhaps on a holiday. I hear it’s beautiful this time of—”

The coffee and cheesecake clattered to the kitchen floor as Crowley lunged over the countertop, his warm hands finding Aziraphale’s face, and kissed him with the energy of six thousand years.

There was a fluttering sound, and Aziraphale stretched his wings as Crowley landed in his lap. The pearly white feathers wrapped around them like a cocoon. There weren't any flashes of love coming from Crowley—they were more like tidal waves. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he’d missed them before.

Crowley pulled back, blinking at the sudden appearance of the angel’s wings. “Someone’s happy to see me,” he joked weakly.

“You surprised me.”

“That was, er, kind of the point.” Crowley didn’t move. He reached up to straighten Aziraphale’s bowtie, which had gone crooked. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Nearly midnight,” he noted.

“We should start planning what happens tomorrow,” said Aziraphale, who was staring at Crowley’s lips.

“Right. Planning.” Crowley slid off the angel’s lap, and Aziraphale promptly put his wings away. “Er, my room, then?”

“I suppose that would be a good location,” said Aziraphale, sweating a little.

“Just, just to—plan,” Crowley stammered.

“Naturally.”

And they went to Crowley’s room, and they did plan. That was all they did. To assume they did anything else would be very improper. Get your mind out of the gutter. Angels and demons are sexless beings, you know, unless they are trying very hard not to be. And really, Aziraphale and Crowley thought that it wasn’t worth the effort.

All they’d ever wanted, after all, had been each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> At the end of each chapter I’m going to share a song from my personal “ineffable husbands” playlist. Today’s pick is "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:  
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
> My twitter is [anthonyjcrowiey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowiey)
> 
> **Up Next: The Rest of Their Lives**


	5. The Rest Of Their Lives

**Sunday**

“Do you really think this will work?”

“It better,” said Crowley, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It was the early hours of the morning, and they’d been up all night. Demons didn’t really get tired, but the events of the apocalypse that failed had made him very weary. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t, if Agnes warned us about it.”

“I’m rather worried that I won’t be able to, er… be you,” said Aziraphale, sliding his coat back onto his shoulders. Crowley leaned against the wall, his sunglasses off for once. He’d kept them off the entire night, once Aziraphale had mentioned offhandedly that he  _ liked _ his eyes. Crowley had half a mind to never wear the glasses again.

“Eh,” Crowley shrugged. He followed Aziraphale’s movements with his eyes. Now that he was allowed to look, he never wanted to stop. “You know me well enough, angel. Better than Hell does. You’ll do fine.”

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. Then he reached out and put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley stood up a bit straighter, suddenly embarrassingly aware of his own body, every movement and fidget. Only Aziraphale could make him act this way, like a fumbling teenager.

Crowley expected Aziraphale to say something. Instead, he just stared for a few long moments, and Crowley stared back, searching the angel’s face for the words he wasn’t speaking. 

And then Aziraphale pulled back, his fingers trailing down Crowley’s arm before falling away at his side. “Shall we… swap, then?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley gave a tight nod. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

***

Aziraphale’s body felt different than his own, but Crowley was more or less enjoying the experience. It took  _ a lot _ of effort not to use his natural saunter, but to instead imitate Aziraphale’s stiff stride. He had watched the angel move, speak, and emote for so long that it came somewhat naturally to pretend to be him. Only someone who knew the angel as well as he did would notice any differences (and nobody was as educated on the topic of Aziraphale as Crowley was).

He also knew the bookshop well enough to spot a few changes here and there. There were books Aziraphale hadn’t previously owned, and Crowley knew this because he was fairly certain Aziraphale had talked about all of his books at some point or another. If he saw one he didn’t recognize the title of, it was likely new.

He’d never been in the bookshop without Aziraphale—except for the time it was burnt down. That didn’t count, in his opinion. He trailed his fingers over the book covers as he walked around, enjoying the silence. The place smelled of old parchment and Aziraphale’s cologne. Like comfort.

_ Like home. _

When they met in St. James Park, Crowley watched Aziraphale saunter over. He didn’t have the walk quite right, he noted, but he would still manage to fool anyone else. 

“Strawberry lolly and a vanilla with a flake, please,” Aziraphale-as-Crowley said, and Crowley tried not to roll his eyes. As if he, a demon, would say  _ please _ . 

“How’s the car?” he asked. He was dying to know if his Bentley had been immaculately restored like Aziraphale’s shop, or if there was anything off with it.

“Not a scratch on it. How’s the bookshop?”

“Not a smudge. Not a book burned. Everything back just the way it was.”

The vendor handed over their desserts, and Crowley saw Aziraphale smile in thanks.  _ Ugh.  _ Even pretending to be Crowley, he couldn’t help but just be  _ nice _ to everyone. Maybe he should’ve given Aziraphale a crash course in how to be a demon. It was too late now.

Aziraphale handed over the cone, and Crowley took it, trying not to grimace. He really wanted his strawberry lolly, but they couldn’t be seen swapping ice cream orders, could they? He glanced around. “You heard from your people yet?” he asked, hoping to whoever that one of them would appear before he had to take a bite of this vanilla monstrosity.

He didn’t have to wait long. While Aziraphale was busy being distracted by a flash of Death, Crowley was busy being gagged and taken away by a horde of angry angels. They were a sorry lot, he thought, as he pretended to struggle. And annoyingly rough with him.

He only hoped the demons wouldn’t be as rough with Aziraphale.

***

“Ah! Aziraphale.” 

Crowley felt a flash of pride. Even the Archangel Gabriel himself was too stupid to realize what was going on. But here he was, tied to a chair, pretending to be Aziraphale, and it was working. All of their careful planning through the night and into the morning deciphering Agnes’ prophecy and then working out the logistics had lead up to this.

It actually had been quite an effort to focus on the plan. After centuries of knowing how he felt for Aziraphale, fighting it, pushing it away… he was finally allowed to express it. It was difficult, though. Crowley didn’t fancy himself a very affectionate person, but he showed Aziraphale he cared in other ways. 

Taking care to hang up the angel’s coat, for example. For anyone else, he would’ve just tossed it on a chair; Aziraphale was very particular about that coat. Subtly increasing the thread count on the blanket he offered to Aziraphale, because the flat was a bit chilly, and he only deserved the softest of blankets. Making Aziraphale’s tea exactly the way he liked it without even having to ask, because of course he knew how his best friend took his tea. He wasn’t a monster.

He didn’t know if the angel noticed these things, but he did them anyway. (Of course, Aziraphale did notice, and realized how much of an idiot he had been for the last several thousand years.)

Seeing through Aziraphale’s eyes, it was taking a while for Crowley to adjust to the sight of Heaven. He hadn’t been here in several millennia, but he didn’t miss it. Hell was, literally, a hellhole, but Heaven was too pristine. Too formal. Too…  _ holier-than-thou. _ No wonder Aziraphale preferred being on Earth.

Crowley hated the way the angels talked down to him. Like he was at the bottom of the corporate ladder, and they were at the top, with their fancy white offices and suits. Anger bubbled beneath his—Aziraphale’s—skin. Crowley had the urge to punch the purple right out of Gabriel’s eyes. Perhaps it was good he was tied up.

Gabriel was having too much fun, threatening and teasing Aziraphale as if he’d wanted this for centuries. Maybe he had. Aziraphale had mentioned the other angels not liking him much, but Crowley had only half-believed him. How could anyone dislike such a pure soul? But he saw it now, how these creatures born from love had become hateful things. All of them, except Aziraphale.

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

It infuriated him, seeing how Aziraphale was treated. Crowley was glad to be here in his place, to prevent him from this abuse. When Uriel removed his bonds, Crowley took immense effort not to go shoving them all into the hellfire right then and there. Instead, he forced himself to speak in Aziraphale’s voice, to attempt to make the angels think he wanted them to change their minds. 

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” said Gabriel.

_ I’ll shut your stupid mouth, you bastard, _ Crowley thought, giving Gabriel a cold smile. One day he hoped to get his hands on Gabriel— _ his _ hands, not Aziraphale’s, mind you—and give him what he deserved. 

The look on the angels’ faces when Crowley-as-Aziraphale stepped into the flames was almost satisfying enough. Crowley couldn’t help grinning, immensely enjoying the payback. 

_ That’s what you get for trying to kill my angel. _

***

The world was peaceful once more—or at least, just as peaceful as it had been before the apocalypse had begun, which truthfully was not very peaceful at all. But for Crowley, the world was brand new, and everything was as it should be.

Things were normal between him and Aziraphale again, too. Normal, and yet completely new and exciting. As they swapped their bodies back, their hands lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. Armageddon might have been averted for now, but it would likely still come someday, and Crowley wasn’t going to waste a moment of time between now and then.

“Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?” he said, smiling.

“Temptation accomplished,” said Aziraphale, and they rose from the bench. Crowley’s heart was light, bouncing around his insides. The world was their oyster, and funny enough, oysters had been their first lunch together.

They walked to the Ritz, side-by-side, close enough that every so often their shoulders would brush. 

“Did you know, angel,” said Crowley, “that if you ever wanted to change up your style… well, I could help you.”

“What’s wrong with my style?” said Aziraphale, defensively.

“Nothing, nothing,” Crowley said quickly. “It’s just that, well, the fact that you think tartan is stylish is unfathomable. Overall it’s just a bit, er, outdated.”

_ “Outdated?” _ Aziraphale said, looking absolutely affronted. 

“I just mean there’s room for improvement!”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, then looked thoughtful. “Admittedly, you are better at keeping up with the trends than I am. I believe my favourite hairstyle of yours was in, oh, two thousand and thirteen? When we met on the bus, do you remember?”

Crowley frowned, thinking back to the popular hairstyle he’d worn then; a bit longer, hitting his shoulders, but partially tied up at the back. “Really? That one?”

“Yes! It reminded me of Eden, you know, when your hair was very long,” said Aziraphale, smiling fondly.

“Ah.” Crowley would remember that, should he ever feel like he wanted to change his current style. Tomorrow, maybe. Mondays were always a good day for a fresh start. He cleared his throat. “Right, well. I suppose I can’t convince you to try something new, then?”

Aziraphale side-eyed him, ran his hands down his lapel thoughtfully, and huffed a little. “I will consider it. Thank you.”

And then he grabbed Crowley’s hand, entwined their fingers, and they walked the rest of the way to the Ritz hand in hand.

***

The Ritz was divine. Of all the places they had gone to lunch over the years, the Ritz was one of Crowley’s favourites, mostly because of how Aziraphale seemed to enjoy it so much.

Crowley was deep in thought, not really eating, because that was Aziraphale’s thing, but sipping at his coffee every so often. Miraculously, it never went cold, so he wasn’t in a rush to finish. 

“How long do you think we have?” Aziraphale asked after a while. “Before the, um, big one?”

“Oh, er…” Crowley paused, thinking. “I’d say a century or so. Can’t expect Heaven and Hell to band together too quickly.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

A server poured champagne at Aziraphale’s insistence that they needed to make a toast to celebrate. 

It felt easy now. There was nothing left to hide, and they had time to figure everything out. Not only that, but they’d be left alone for a bit, and they wouldn’t have to worry about Heaven or Hell for a while yet.

A strange feeling came over Crowley, so foreign that it took him a moment to identify it.

He was happy.

“I like to think none of this would’ve worked out,” said Aziraphale, “if you weren’t, at heart, just a little bit a good person.”

A few days ago, Crowley had lost his temper when Aziraphale called him  _ nice _ . Now at the angel’s words he felt as bright and bubbly as his champagne. 

“And if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,” Crowley said, a light, teasing smile playing at his lips. Their eyes met, and Aziraphale’s bashful smile was enough to tell Crowley that things were going to be alright, now that they had each other.

“Cheers,” he murmured, lifting his champagne. “To the world.”

What he really wanted to say was  _ to us,  _ but  _ to the world _ would suffice. It was the same thing to Crowley, anyway. 

“To the world,” echoed Aziraphale, and they clinked glasses. 

The look of love the angel gave him then was one that Crowley would never forget. Aziraphale forgave him, Aziraphale loved him, Aziraphale cared about him in a way God never had. 

He had lost his place in Heaven, but he’d found a home on Earth instead. And if that home was an angel, there wasn’t anything Heaven or Hell could do about it.

It was, after all, ineffable.

**the end.**

**(and in a way, the beginning, too.)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are like little miracles.
> 
> For the last chapter, one last song from my personal “ineffable husbands” playlist: "Stuck" by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> If you’d like to say hi:
> 
> My tumblr is [anthonyjcrowiey.](http://anthonyjcrowiey.tumblr.com/)  
> My twitter is [anthonyjcrowiey.](https://twitter.com/anthonyjcrowiey)


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